Another sublime afternoon with Uncle Itzhak

Perlman in action in New York.

I came to Itzhak Perlman's Celebrity Series appearance at Symphony Hall last weekend after a series of disappointing experiences at the theatre, and so the concert felt like a long, wonderful wash of aesthetic balm. I think by now Mr. Perlman needs no introduction; the virtuosity of his musicianship is pretty much an accepted fact.  (And perhaps it's some consolation, I think, in these days of decay and dissolution, to remember that there are still a few things on which we can all agree.)

Indeed, every time I've heard Perlman play, the same awed, grateful sensation seemed to ripple through the crowd as soon as his bow touched his instrument's strings. The only thing I can compare the moment to is the lighting of a candle in a darkened room; at once the entire hall is always stilled, as the separate attentions of thousands of people become focused on a single, sublime sensation emanating from the graying, bespectacled man and his violin.  Sometimes I think that as long as we're awed by superb technique, we can still call ourselves human.  (So how we'll hang onto our humanity after we've lost Itzhak Perlman I've no idea.)

Of course Perlman has his critics (the Globe's Jeremy Eichler among them) who are perhaps disturbed by the fact that he has long since become the star of his concerts; indeed, the music he plays is almost incidental; he could play "Mary Had a Little Lamb," and still fill Symphony Hall.  The virtuoso himself is obviously aware of this - although it must be added, he wears his stardom lightly.  He's hardly a diva - instead, Perlman has the dry warmth of that witty uncle who knows better than to take himself (or his music) too seriously - or rather too self-seriously.  Or at least that's the kind of affectionate avuncularity he manages to project as he runs through his encores - many of them simple showpieces by the likes of Kreisler - whom Perlman himself mocks lightly from the stage.

To be fair to Eichler's ilk, of course, I have to admit there are all kinds of odd formal questions bouncing around a Perlman star turn.  His sound is basically a sweetly lyrical distillation of late romantic, German style - and he doesn't change it much, whatever he's playing.  I don't mean he doesn't take the pieces he plays seriously; quite the contrary; his performances on Sunday were marvels of thoughtful nuance.  Yet he ran through a program of duets for violin and piano by Schubert, Brahms, and Saint-Saëns with hardly any variation in his core tone. Intriguingly, however, his accompanist, Rohan De Silva, proved something of a stylistic chameleon.  De Silva may lack his own interpretive profile; but his touch slid into the interpretive consensus behind Brahms, and then Saint-Saëns, with ease (only his Schubert didn't convince). If the program was at all differentiated in style, this was almost entirely due to him.

As I said, however, the opening Rondo (in B minor) from Schubert didn't quite cohere - although this may be because it represents Schubert trying not to sound too much like himself - his own masterpieces were rarely popular! - and so not sounding like anything too clearly at all.  The Brahms Sonata No. 2 was far better, although this was the one time I wished for more interpretive distinction from De Silva, as until the final movement the piano (which Brahms played himself, of course) does most of the musical heavy lifting.  Still, the last Allegretto grazioso, which features one of the master's most subtly ravishing melodies for violin, came off beautifully, with Perlman in his most transporting form.

Next came more Brahms - three of the Hungarian Dances (I think there are 21 in all, although we weren't told which of these Perlman was playing!), all of them indeed dancing with just the right mix of romantic feeling and fire.  But probably the triumph of the concert was the closing Sonata No. 1 in D minor from Saint-Saëns.  This is a curious piece, more in symphonic than sonata form, that somehow exudes the mysterious core of its sphinx-like composer's musical gift; pure, poised, and exploratory, with a sense of floating mood and sparkling intelligence (perhaps sans clear object), it's the kind of work that can drift from haunting melancholy to lively joy and back without ever quite settling on a single statement or stance.  And somehow Perlman (and De Silva) made its oppositions utterly compelling - for once, Perlman's technical and interpretive virtuosity were entirely in alignment.

And then came six encores - probably Isaac Albeniz’s Tango and Ries’s Perpetuum Mobile (described by Perlman as "one of Ries's pieces") came off best - with probably as many, or more, standing ovations. But I could have given him six more; indeed, when Perlman finally left the stage, I admit I found myself immediately hoping that Uncle Itzhak would be back to see us soon.

A visit with Uncle Itzhak

There isn't much to say anymore about Itzhak Perlman (at left). Not really. He long ago reached a level of technique that kind of beggars description, and renders criticism mute.

He knows it, too. Perlman's all too aware he's a grand master in the old style, now in a perpetual victory lap around the globe, the kind of attraction that musical people bring their ten-year-olds to see, just as their parents did with Pavarotti or Horowitz. And so he relaxes, and has a little fun, as he did at last weekend's sell-out Celebrity Series concert at Symphony Hall. After all, he's got nothing left to prove.

This attitude - or rather the marketing behind it - bent the Globe's Jeremy Eichler all out of shape, but I didn't much mind. Because to be honest, even if Perlman's style has congealed a bit, and he isn't pushing the envelope anymore, even if a quarter of his performance at Symphony was decided on at the last minute, then obviously tossed off (although brilliantly tossed off), he's hardly slumming, as Pavarotti often did. Nor has he become at all cynical or bored (as Horowitz sometimes seemed).

Indeed, Perlman is only too eager to show his audience a good time. And yes, bask in their admiration for doing that so effortlessly. True, he is hardly a selfless devotee to music; indeed, the spotlight is rather obviously on him rather than the music - much less his pianist, the amiable (and able) Rohan de Silva, who in only one or two pieces was treated as a true partner rather than an accompanist.

But Perlman is still a magician, and still able to do literally anything he wants to on his ravishing Strad. And truth be told, sometimes the music was the focus of the concert, and when that happened, only a fool would pretend that the performance was anything less than stunning. The opening Mozart was elegant and lightly plush, if a bit brisk (Perlman tended to keep his foot on the pedal throughout the concert); it was the following Franck sonata that was something of a revelation. The piece may be Franck's most popular, and for good reason: it's a strange, sprawling triumph that's both harmonically and melodically dense and structurally almost too bizarre to be called a "sonata"; the third movement alone seems to come to more than one crashing climax before righting itself with newly lustrous variations on its set of themes. For once, de Silva held his ground as an equal partner to Perlman - indeed, Franck may be more this pianist's forte than the violinist's. Nevertheless, Perlman's playing seemed to open up in the Franck; the tempos seemed just right, the tone appropriately lush; together, Perlman and de Silva held the audience spellbound (even Eichler had to admit he liked this one).

Alas, the Debussy sonata that followed (which is famously the composer's last composition) proved disappointing. Perlman seemed disinterested in its quirky mysteries, and his playing was fast and loose. But one dud doesn't ruin a concert. What came next amounted to a long encore, with Perlman shuffling through sheet music right there on stage, looking for something we in Boston might not have heard before. The schtick was actually charming - Perlman came off as an affectionate uncle to about 3,000 different people, and after all, why shouldn't classical music be a casual affair among friends?

The chosen works turned out to be (surprise, surprise) mostly light showpieces for the violin (by Kreisler, Heifetz, and the usual suspects) in which the piano played, well, second fiddle. Still, the Kreisler (a "chanson" in the style of Couperin) was gorgeous, and Perlman threw in a spirited take on one of Brahms's Hungarian Dances, too. Even the theme from Schindler's List sounded lovely (and made one wish John Williams could work it into a richer musical structure). By the end of the performance, the sense of affection between Perlman and his public was palpable; we could have gone on listening to him forever. And is that so wrong?